


Unspoken

by OneSmartChicken



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Asexual Natasha, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Ballerina Natasha, Blood, Deaf Clint, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, and kinda sexual, aromantic natasha, but this already seems like way too many tags for fucking 1k, but uh, here there be curse words, i'm probably missing tags, kinda dark but pretty happy overall, nat and clint are teens at the beginning, nat is kinda romantic, nothing's actually very graphic, oh i guess i should tag for, oh right, people die but they're nameless bad guys, pre-SHIELD, she defines her own sexuality okay, somewhat bloodthirsty, very mild discussions of sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneSmartChicken/pseuds/OneSmartChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU of blood and violence, of children on the streets, and ballet performed as a blade cuts through the air. And then schmoop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh. Uhhhh?? ???
> 
> I don't know why this happened.

His breath smells like burnt meat and ketchup, greasy filth that fans across her face like a splash of fry oil. When his hands come up, thick and damp, she doesn't flinch. As square fingers catch at her arms, she stares him in the eye. Waits.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he exhales. Her skin no longer crawls, gone immune over the years, but her stomach turns. "We gonna have a good time?" The question makes her smile, tongue tracing a line over her lips.

"I know I am." Her voice is low and hot, a curl of seduction in the smoke-clogged night air, and he's too busy watching her pretty mouth to notice the way her eyes glint. Man like him, probably wouldn't know what that sort of look meant even if he did see it.

His friends are jeering, but their comments are even more useless than his. She lets them wash past her, taking in only voices, pinpointing locations without thought so much as ingrained instinct. When he pushes her down, it is with the ballerina's grace that she twists, turns the hold back on him. He lands on his face with a meaty thud, too startled to shout.

They move in a noisy crash, a raucous mob of violence. A delicate knife, filched from a delirious sushi chef, flashes through the air. There is a glint of silver and rush of scarlet hair, and the gush of crimson from cleanly parted flesh is a balm in the otherwise colorless night. Her movements feel like dancing, the slash of red mouth curled into a smile as she moves to a music she knows like her own heartbeat.

A pirouette, and a streak of blade, and the piano gurgled as blood poured over its keys. She adjusted her grip to account for slippage, flicked blood from its tipped, and then she was leaning in. The artful curve of long fingers held a face still so the canvas' protests would not disturb the painting, would not deter her from etching it _just so._ An improperly heavy hand on her shoulder turned her, and she showed her appreciation with a smile, blade arcing gracefully out and down. Fabric tore, and her pointe collided with the soft skin of an inexperienced dancer. There were no apologies in ballet, though, and so on she danced.

When the curtains drew, she found herself in the panting of her own breath, the whimpers of those who still twitched. She peered down at them, insects at her toes. Most would not move again, or if they did, it would not be for long, no matter who came in their remaining time. There was one against the wall though, curled around himself, trying desperately not to make a sound, and failing utterly to hold in his gasping sobs. The hourglass across his face would scar nicely, she thought, smile long gone, departed with the faded music and the return of the terrible stillness of night. Wetness dribbled down her face, hot and grimey. Dragging her shirt up, she smeared it away before it could reach her mouth; hygeine was important.

A sharp whistle jerked her head upwards, eyes alight on a familiar face peered down at her. She felt her lips twitch, just a bit. "Hey bitch," he called, waving a hand. "You need a shower." The one-fingered response was a sign even children knew, but she started up the wall anyway. Her fingers dug into brick, curled around metal and ledges, feet bracing expertly, until Clint reached down to grab her by the wrists and drag her up.

_Know where I can get one?_ she signed, preferred the silent language even more than the actual deaf half of their odd pair.

"Sure, sure," Clint nodded, always liked to make noise when he had his hearing aides in, proving himself to someone unseen, to himself her her, she didn't know who. She was waiting for him to realize he had nothing to prove. "Come on, got a good spot tonight. Maybe we'll even stay." He didn't hesitate to link their fingers, even though hers were still covered in strangers' blood. For her part, she didn't pull away, let him lead her over rooftops, through a city threaded in pollution, its only stars the flourescent lights glinting in its streets, proclaiming the names of illegal clubs and seedy motels and, where her eyes rarely wandered, the gems of the wealthy and priveleged.

She didn't have a name, except the ones Clint used, now and then. The sign for spider, usually. Sometimes dancer, or a spinning hand like a ballerina. Sometimes it was 'doll'. He never called her anything verbally, which was how she preferred, although sometimes she let him call her pet names, teasing calls of _baby_ or soft whispers of _honey_ and laughs of insulting words that only counted as pet names because it was the two of them. They who were so dirty that the offensive words of verbal language were akin to raindrops against their skin, only words amongst many. It was only the emotions that mattered, the sounds and signs no more than a crude delivery system.

They kissed, sometimes, as children did, and that night was one of those times. As he smoothed a wet rag over her skin, he pressed soft lips to new bruises and old scars. He gentled her with calloused fingertips along her waist and hips, open-mouthed kisses against her ribs, checking for damage, affirming her presence. Sometimes he was like a blind man, the way he pet her, with his whole, devoted focus and attentive touches. There was nothing sexual in those carresses, no matter what the kisses suggested. She was 16 to his 14 and they wouldn't seek that sort of satisfaction in each other for years yet. And it would be years more before he pulled her down into his lap to point out words on the computer screen. _Aromantic_ and _attraction_ and _bisexual._ He tapped his chest for the last, hid a smile against her shoulder.

Coulson was a soldier, scarred and worn and military tough, but when he smiled it was warm, and when he looked at Clint it was the way some people looked at the stars. Like he saw the galaxy, and he was joyously lost to its wonder. When he introduced himself, she looked to Clint, and he gave the sign for spider, followed by an hourglass carefully shaped with his archer's fingers, so Coulson called her Widow verbally, and spider silently. Clint still kissed her, even though he kissed Coulson too, but he never hid it. Coulson just smiled when his boyfriend (too young for him, but what were numbers to ancient creatures like they two) leaned over the couch to kiss the edge of her not-smile.

They were 27 and 25 and they had been with Coulson for four years when she walked in to the apartment they pretended not to share, a decision in her face and stride. Coulson looked concerned, though he tried to hide it, didn't hide it well enough. She had been caught on something for weeks, they all knew it, knew she had been standing on the precipice, and they thought--well, a lot of things. Possibilities. Except they weren't, those ideas that sounded like leaving weren't possible for her, and she needed them to know that, needed these two to understand. No one else mattered, but these two did, more than anything in the world, maybe.

So she squared her shoulders and Coulson, who only had confidence in her loyalty to Clint, who worried so much, who was love and guard and fit so well where no one else could, who did not come between but instead brought them closer--it was his eyes that she met. Seeing the love-driven concern there, one last confirmation, she nodded.

"Coulson." His attention was already on her, but his eyes sharpened at his name, his posture tightened as if in preparation for a blow. "It's Natasha," she told him. His cool hands on her cheeks startled an inaudible intake of breath, but she didn't pull away when his lips touched hers.

"Call me Phil," he requested, gently, smiling, and she saw the understanding in his eyes. Knew that though her promise went unsaid, it did not go unheard. Something inside her softened, and then Clint's hands were wrapping around hers, drawing her to him.

He kissed her, slow and sweet, and when he pressed a sign into her belly, she smiled, and her eyes crinkled as they closed.

The never said it, but all three knew the meaning of that sign, and though some days they would doubt it, could not help their human fragility, they reaffirmed the knowledge with every kiss and brush of fingers. For all their days, they knew, and they held tight to each other, and when Clint signed even with his aides in, or Phil brushed tender kisses, or Natasha smiled, they knew the words to this particular song, the moves to this dance:

_I love you._

**Author's Note:**

> So that got really cheesy huh. I haven't played with Nat and Clint and Coulson nearly enough even though I love them _so much._ I'll probably write more about these three, probably with characterizations similar to this, so hopefully you liked them.
> 
>  
> 
> **Note about Clint calling Natasha "bitch"--if it bothers you, I'm sorry, but it's how I picture them, especially in this AU.**  
> (...anyone want a follow-up?)


End file.
